


Ain’t No Nancy Kerrigan

by cleverqueen



Series: Kinetics [1]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: 1994, Ice Skating, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-17 02:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11841882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleverqueen/pseuds/cleverqueen
Summary: It's 1994, and young Lisa Snart's jumps aren't strong enough for an Olympic singles skater. Thankfully, her older brother has an athletic friend who can match her in pairs.Mick Rory is hopelessly in love with Leonard Snart, though he'd never say anything about it, so he jumps at a chance to do Len's little sister a favor. If he's patient and works hard, maybe he'll even get to skate with her older brother.





	Ain’t No Nancy Kerrigan

When Mick Rory was young, he cared about two things: his family and his fire. Then his family died.

By the time he reached juvie, he still cared about two things. Now it was his fire and his body. He liked the way his muscles moved under his skin and the satisfying soreness that came from winning a yard fight.

Then he met Leonard Snart. It only took a week before Mick Rory added the too-tiny thief to his caring list. But where Mick now cared for three things (his fire, his body, his friend), Len loved only two: Lisa and the thrill of the score.

Mick accepted Len’s loves into his life like they were his own. When Len went casing banks, Mick was there to back him up. And when Len wanted to share Lisa’s report cards, Mick was ready to coo over them.

Which was why, one day in 1994, Mick picked Lisa up from ice skating practice when Len was busy with his father.

It was mid-March, and a burst of snow-chilled air rushed in when Lisa wrenched open the passenger door on his rusted, stolen Volvo. She dropped into the seat with all the force a 13-year-old athlete can manage. She threw herself against the backrest and blew a heavy sigh into the wispy bangs that Len trimmed for her earlier when he’d dropped her off at the rink. (Mick had watched his partner’s sure hands—capable of gliding over lockpicks or strangling a betrayer—as they’d danced through light brown strands, compulsively comparing lengths until he was sure the wisps were both fashionable but also out of her eyes.)

Her posture screamed teenage angst with a measure of _ugh, don’t talk to me_. Mick thumbed the radio dial to a station that liked to play scream-y music, and was rewarded by Hole’s “Miss World.” Perfect.

Lisa smiled, and it looked like an animal’s bared teeth.

When the Volvo had rumbled partway to the library, Courtney Love faded to commercial and Mick tapped the music off. Time to brave the lioness. “How was practice?” he asked.

In reply, he was treated to a monologue of frustration and ranting. Both Snarts talked too much for most folks, but it was nice, usually. A background rumble of information that didn’t expect Mick to participate. He was part of the conversation, but he didn’t have to figure out what to say or how to say it. The siblings took him and his somewhat unsocialized self as he was.

“And then coach said I can’t skate solo yet. My jumps aren’t high enough. Did she say that to Katy Patterson? Nooooooo.”

Mick nodded along. “They’re not gonna kick you out or anything, right?” Len’d be mighty upset if someone crushed his sister’s Olympic dreams. On the plus side, that might mean Mick would get to burn down the ice rink.

“Nah.” Lisa blew into her bangs again. Maybe Len should’ve cut them shorter? He could try and convince her that the Hepburn look was in style again. “I have to find a partner is all.”

Mick knew all about partners. He and Len had been working together for years. They were brawn and brains, and not sure who was which in private. Putting on a show for the masses. “Mm-hmm.”

Mick turned on his right blinker. So close to the library parking lot. He could drop her off and let her do homework while he went home to the empty apartment until Len got back and told him what they were doing tonight. Or he could burn some newspapers out behind the mall. Recycling might take off someday, but everyone knew it didn’t work so hot right now. He was doing the landfills a favor when he burned the self-righteous editorials.

“Saaaaay, Mick,” Lisa drew the vowel out, clearly wanting something. “Would _you_ be my partner?”

Mick paused in the suicide lane, the only sound from the loud blinker, before time restarted. He made the turn into the 10-minute drop off parking. “I’m already your brother’s partner.”

“It won’t take any time away from him,” she pleaded.

“Aren’t I a little old for you?” At 25, Mick was 3 years older than Len and 12 years older than Lisa.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “So long as you’re strong enough to throw me in the air and you haven’t been paid to figure skate before, you count.”

Mick put the car in park, but didn’t turn it off. What did he know about figure skating? Nothing more than what Lisa told him. But she loved it, and Len loved Lisa. And Mick loved Len. There was a chain here that meant he was probably going to end up spending more time in cold and icy locales than he really wanted to. He smiled a little lopsidedly, rueful.

Lisa could read him like a mark. “Pleeeeeeeease,” she said. “You know Lenny won’t trust me with anyone else.”

And _that_ was true. Len would be thrilled to see Lisa happily pursuing her dream, and if Mick was the guy who made that happen (while also being the guy who kept adolescent boys from wiping their sweaty palms all over his baby sister), then he was bound to receive a bit of gratitude. Maybe even a present.

“Yeah, okay,” he said.

Lisa cheered. “See you at the rink tomorrow after my school gets out,” she said. Then she hopped out of the car and slammed the door before he could think to check what time exactly that was. Eh, Len would know.

***

The Central City ice rink was far more crowded than Mick would have expected for 2:45 pm on a Wednesday. Then again, he’d never been inside before, so what did he know?

He found a wooden bench—warmer than the rink area, smelling of stale hot dogs and processed liquid cheese, just like a bowling alley or roller skate box—and bent to fasten his rented skates. ’70s disco played over the speakers, behind the times and unobjectionable, and he hummed along to “Disco Inferno” as he threaded the laces.

“Mick! You made it!” Lisa’s wide smile held a hint of breathless relief. Almost like she hadn’t expected him to show up. Damn Lewis for causing her to doubt that an adult who supposedly cared for her might not be where he said he’d be. Mick had been around for years now, and _still_ Lisa (and even Len) made those happily surprised eyes.

“Hey, Glider,” he said.

She hissed. “You can’t call me that _here_.”

“I’ll call you anything I like, kiddo,” he said, playing up the embarrassing-older-brother angle. So she didn’t like having an ice-skating nickname around ice-skaters; he could appreciate that. But it meant she needed a new name. Maybe _Goldie_? Len _did_ like decking her out in real gold charm bracelets.

A woman behind Lisa’s shoulder snorted, and Mick contemplated getting up off the bench and teaching her some manners about eavesdropping, but Lisa interrupted the action (which would’ve taken a while anyway, starting with extricating himself from the half-laced skates) before it could really start.

“Just use ‘Lise’, okay?” she whispered.

Mick blinked and sat a little more firmly on the wooden bench. _Lise._ Only Len called her that, as far as he knew. It was _their_ nickname. His fingers clenched and released three times, body fidgeting and heating while his mind processed. Did this make him an honorary younger Snart? A family member? Did the tribal behavior—always so harped upon in discussions of prison inmates—extend to Len? If it did, did that make him and Len brothers, or just tribe-mates with an option for other relationships later?

The woman behind Lisa clucked her tongue. “He doesn’t have a figure skating build,” she remarked, as though Mick weren’t right there. She tilted her head, evaluating him from every angle, and her bun didn’t move a single inch from its dead-center position. “I have no time for nonsense.”

Lisa spun and patted at the air in a manner better suited to reassuring an invisible cat than placating what was obviously her skating coach. “He has great coordination. We just have to get him up to speed.”

“Humph,” said the woman. She asked Mick, “Have you ever skated before?” She had a very faint Russian accent. He could hear it now in her voice, the vowel in be _fore._ Weren’t Russians were a big deal in the figure skating world? He’d have thought she’d play it up instead of down. Unless she’d actually been a defector or something.

None of his business. Arsonists shouldn’t throw stones at foreign spies. Unless they were on fire or something.

“Just the usual. Forwards, backwards, stopping.”

The woman nodded, bun not giving the slightest bounce. (No matter how many times he’d watched Len pin Lisa’s hair, they’d never managed to keep it so still. This was impressive.) “You are not completely useless, then. Good.”

Mick grinned at her. It was something Len would say when reluctantly pleased. “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

She nodded again. “Today, you learn to jump. If you can land a Salchow and a Lutz by end of the week, _cleanly_ , you may call me ‘Coach.’”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The woman swanned away, parents and small children clearing themselves from her path, and Lisa collapsed on the bench beside him. “You’re going to be great,” she said. “Now, why aren’t your skates laced yet? Coach hates it when people are late.”

“Hey, Lise”—the name tasted strange in his mouth, but good strange like the one time he’d seen a beef stew and hadn’t realized it had cinnamon and apricots in it—“how’d you know my coordination was good?” It was good enough, he supposed. He could balance on a wide window ledge and climb silently down a fire escape, but most of the time he threw his weight around and didn’t much care where it landed.

“You work with my brother,” was her only reply. And he supposed that really said it all.

***

The next four days were a blurry montage of tracksuited teenagers and _scrape scrape scrape_ noises of blades on ice. Apparently, Lisa’s coach did classes—not singles, which made sense with how much money Len could cobble together—so Mick was surrounded by pimply scrunchie-lovers who made him feel tall and bulky. They all drank water instead of soda and held Mick up as an example of what happens when you eat/pump/grow too much. He wasn’t sure that was a healthy mindset, but he didn’t get the chance to talk with them about it before Lisa and Ma’am had him practicing.

And falling and falling and falling. He had bruises in places he’d never been beaten up. He had aches in muscles he’d never used to _do_ the beating up. His legs felt heavy all the time, and his ass was tight for all the wrong reasons.

But he made it, with lots of extra help from Lisa. His body obeyed, like it always had. When Friday came, Mick landed a single Lutz (that Ma’am called “sloppy”), a Salchow (that she called “a disgrace”), and a sit spin she hadn’t even asked for (that she called “slow and unbalanced”).

Her disdainful sniffs made him grin even more than the applause of Lisa’s group-practice-mates. He was _in._

***

Mick and Lisa had two days to practice before they could tell Len the good news, and Mick was feeling pretty confident about it. Their angles almost matched when they leaned into a turn, and Lisa barely weighed anything. Tossing her in the air was a million times easier than slamming an opponent through a bar table or hefting Len onto a window ledge for a second-story break-in.

He’d taken to hitting the rink before she got there, practicing his landings and horrifying young mothers of elementary school kids who didn’t know rough guys could skate. Circling the rink was therapeutic, like lifting weights had been in juvie. It was just him and his body, pushing the limits without input from his mind.

At least, _usually_ it felt calming. On Sunday, Mick’s whole body was made of jitters. His ribs felt too tight; his fingers constantly clenched; and his eyes strayed to the rink-side seats every time he and Lisa parted hands. He couldn’t help it. Today was the day _Len_ would see what they’d been working for. The day Len would realize Mick could do more than drive cars and go over plans. The day Len would believe that Mick was a partner for _every_ Snart, that he could be trusted with Lisa’s best interests.

He didn’t even care that his nose kept running from the harsh refrigeration.

Coach was unimpressed with his distractibility. “Mick,” she said, “you are—how you say?—complete moron. Yes?” She liked putting on a fake Russian accent when annoyance would have made her real one impossible to hide. “No more difficult moves today.”

“But—” Lisa protested.

“Today,” Coach decreed, “we do lifts.”

Lisa squeaked, but it was the good kind of squeak. She’d made the same noise when he’d brought her a troll doll that one time.

Mick wasn’t so sure. “Lifts are easy?” They didn’t look easy on TV. Then again, Mick and Lisa were less physically balanced than other pairs he’d seen skate.

“First,” Coach said—more a directive to listen than enumerating a step—“you put your hands together like this.” Here she demonstrated a deceptively simply merging of fingers and pressing of palms. “Then you bend your arms like so, _et voila._ ” She paused with her arms straight over her head, wrists bent back to keep her from acting like an overzealous crook nabbed by the cops for the first time.

Lisa held out her hands to Mick. They were cold, a little damp, and so very tiny in his. What was he even doing here? Lisa needed a partner her own age and size. He was just her older brother’s friend, as easy for her to manipulate as her real family. Maybe easier.

She took a shaky breath and smiled up at him. The smirk on her face would have looked like cocky teenager-ness to anyone else, but Mick knew what it was. That was patented Snart excitement. He _lived_ for that look on Len’s face, and hell if it wasn’t almost as satisfying on Lisa’s.

“Yeah, okay,” he said.

He followed Coach’s instructions as best he could. They moved slowly on the ice, him backward and her forward. Their fingers and palms did the merging thing, and then Mick hoisted her over his head like she weighed nothing. It couldn’t have been graceful, but it felt solid. She wasn’t going anywhere as far as he was concerned.

“Forward slowly, Mick,” said Coach, so he pushed off gently. “Now, Lisa, arms straighter.” Mick could feel her grip starting to shake and squeezed her hands to let her know he was still there and ready to catch her. “Lisa, push your hips back. I want a _hinge._ ” Which was really just code for _stick your ass out_ , as far as Mick knew, but Coach couldn’t say that to a teenage girl without it being awkward, he supposed.

They’d gone a full revolution of the ice before Coach declared an end to the move. “Okay, Lisa, now widen your legs and kick one over Mick’s head. You’ll fall into his arms and he will catch you. On three. One, two—”

Lisa swore, gripped his hands tighter, and did as ordered. Her left leg went straight up, overbalancing her, and she fell out of the air.

“What the hell?” came an angry voice from the rink-side.

Mick caught Lisa bridal style, barely escaping a nick from her flailing toe pick.

“Sorry about that,” said Lisa.

Coach clapped her hands. “We go again,” she said.

The Plexiglas all around the rink-side vibrated as an angry fist pounded against it. “Veto _that,_ ” said Leonard Snart. He vaulted over the safety rail and sashayed across the ice, still wearing Doc Marten’s. His frown was deep enough to make lines over his nose, and his jaw clenched so hard Mick would bet he’d snarl any second.

Mick’s muscles all seized and he tried to stay totally still, fade into the background. (Of course, the only background was empty ice because he was unlucky in cold places.) He kept the wince off his face, blank as though making sure not to provoke a twitchy prison guard.

Lisa, however, threw herself into Len’s chest, forcibly ignoring the obvious disapproval. “Lenny!” She hugged him hard and then pulled back to smile up at him: sweet and naïve. “I’m so glad you’re here! We’ve been practicing all week just to show you.”

They _had_ been practicing all week. They’d had a week while Len worked a job with Lewis, time to perfect their moves and present him with a fait accompli. In retrospect, this should have been Mick’s first clue that Lisa knew Len wouldn’t be thrilled. Lisa _never_ tried to surprise Len, preferring to involve him in every step of her plans. That way he could revel in her successes, know what she was up to, and never worry.

Mick made sure to keep Lisa between him and his partner. Waved.

Len didn’t even notice him. Usually, that would lead to Mick pulling faces or posturing or picking a fight until Len happened to look over. In case Len had _accidentally_ missed his presence in a room. This time, Mick’s shoulders slumped with relief and his breath whooshed out in a white cloud.

“What are you thinking?” Len loomed over Coach as best he could, but she was in skates and difficult to intimidate. Both of them were skinny, bones showing in their wrists. Coach’s tight bun was as much visual armor as Len’s narrow-eyed glower.

“I was thinking that Lisa will compete for regional titles in pairs skate this year.”

Coach was calm where Len was passionate. Mick would have thought he’d enjoy seeing Len steam, get as anger-hot as any other man, but it looked wrong. Like a Japanese robot with too-human eyes. You just didn’t want to be anywhere near it.

Len sucked in a breath of frigid air, and his whole posture went lax. Instead of leaning and looming, he settled back on his heels, wrapped his long sleeves around the middles of his hands. If no one had seen him seconds before, he’d be the very picture of disinterested disdain mixed with mild disapproval. “So you got her a partner that knows nothing about skating.”

Mick opened his mouth to protest, but no. That was fair. Until last week, he could only start and stop. Sure, he’d learned to get a little bit of air, but he wasn’t an ideal skater by a long shot.

Coach’s mouth quirked down, pulling lines all around her red lipstick. She apparently didn’t like having her authority questioned, even if she hadn’t thought much of Mick either. He was the best of a bad lot, he knew.

Lisa cuddled up to Len again, and his arm went around her shoulders instinctively. “C’mon, Lenny,” she wheedled. “How’s he gonna learn without practice? Besides, you’ve got to like him better than some weakling who can’t hold me over his head. I mean, Mick can pick _you_ up. And no Tonya Harding’s getting near me with him around.”

Len’s narrowed eyes flared wide and he cocked his head to the side as he looked Mick up and down. Len only bared the side of his neck like that when Mick close enough to watch out for his vulnerability, so Mick figured he was doing okay even if his partner was angry. He concentrated on how good it felt to be in Len’s good graces, how that calmed the pounding blood in his ears, so that he wouldn’t dwell on the fact that Len was looking him over like a piece of meat.

Mick was very ready to be a piece of meat if Len wanted to poke at him.

“You’re right,” Len said with a firm nod. Not even a sarcastic drawl. That was the tone of a master planner about to gift his crew with unpopular reasoning. Lisa clutched at him tighter like she could stop him from saying whatever Earth-shattering words were about to drop from his lips. It didn’t help. “So Mick is going to practice with me before he can work with you.”

Lisa’s fingers dug into Len’s long-sleeved polo. “What?!” she screeched.

Without wincing, Len pried her digits off his arm. Len’s own fingers were long and bony, lean and strong. They could pick locks and lift wallets with amazing dexterity. Mick had seen him hang off the edge of a vault door by the tips alone.

Coach hummed. “You prepare on your own time. Come see me when you are ready to be serious.”

“Coach!” protested Lisa.

Mick’s eyes stayed on Len’s fingers, loose at his sides and always ready to go for a gun or a grapple. Those fingers were as long as Mick’s own. They’d tangle together for the lift he’d practiced, perfectly matched in strength and precision. Mick would feel them stroke along his palms and down the knuckles, whorls and striations meshing with tantalizing sensation. They wouldn’t tickle and they’d be cooler than Mick’s, but he knew he could warm Len up.

Coach comforted her skater. “You know I believe in your potential, Lisa, but I have other skaters that need my time.”

They’d never held hands before. Len didn’t like touching people, though he hugged Lisa and gripped Mick’s shoulder occasionally. But they’d have to hold hands for this. Mick didn’t need any more than that to feel like it was a gift. And Len’s own idea! Okay, it wouldn’t be romantic. Len wouldn’t know it could be, and Mick would never tell. (The talk in juvie was more than enough to put him off the idea of exposing his feelings. Even to Len. Although... maybe someday.)

“We’ll expect your attention when she’s ready,” said Len, half a threat.

Len’s fingers were mesmerizing, was the point. Mick could watch them all day as they twisted picks and plucked at blueprints. He just wanted to _touch_ and be allowed to touch.

“Of course,” Coach said, affronted like she heard the threat and neither needed it nor believed in Len’s ability to follow through. “Only the best for my golden girl.”

Mick, Len, and Coach all nodded like this was a perfectly sensible contract. Lisa, however, whined into pitches so high that only other teenagers could hear them. “You are all _so embarrassing_.”

“Awww, trainwreck, you love me.” Len poked his sister in the arm, too gently to move her.

She poked him in return and he stumbled back slightly, not as sure on the slippery surface. Lisa’s smirk returned. “I hope you’re ready to train with me,” she said.

Len gulped, but drawled gamely, “How hard can it be?” Considering that Len was the first to yell at idiots in horror movies on pirated cable channels, that was a brave statement.

***

From that moment till Wednesday evening, Mick was banished from Len and Lisa’s corner of the ice. Probably because he’d said a few uncomplimentary things about Len’s ability to do a single-legged lean without falling over and then offered him a tissue for the cold-air sniffles.

How could he resist, though? Len was the opposite of graceful on ice. That slum-boy swagger he’d affected for the last few years did him no favors now that he needed to stay upright and hold his body in straight lines.

So Mick had stayed to his side of the ice and practiced his jumps until he could get cleanly into and out of the Salchow. Damn, his legs were sore.

Wednesday evening, 8 p.m., when the kids’ classes had vacated the arena and the Zamboni driver stalked the rink-seats with impatience, Len skidded to a stop in front of Mick with Lisa racing close behind him. Ice splashed up onto Mick’s jeans. He sniffed, half from the cold and half to imply _Really, Len?_

“I’ve got the basics of Lisa’s routine,” Len said. “Let’s try it.”

Lisa said, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Mick said, “There’s a _routine?_ I didn’t learn a routine.”

Len huffed, shoulders rising dramatically under his long-sleeved polo. “We just skate around holding hands once, then again on one leg, then a toe loop, another skate around, and then you prove you can lift me over your head. Got it?” He listed out the sequence like orders to case a store.

“Sure, boss.” Mick had gotten good at casing after a few years with Leonard Snart. They made a good team, plans and intentions perfectly in synch. (Except for that little matter of Mick being in love with him, but that wasn’t important.)

Lisa shook her head, pursed her lips like a duck. “Okay,” she said, shrugging. “Let’s see it.”

She didn’t even try to contain her laughter when they couldn’t figure out how to hold hands. After a few moments of watching them slap and elbow and prod each other to get to the hand that each _thought_ they wanted, she took pity. She glided over and took Len’s right hand in hers. “You pass this hand underneath Mick’s arm that’s closest to you,” she explained.

And then she put Len’s right hand into Mick’s.

It was warm, like he’d expected. Unlike he’d expected, Len had a helluva grip. For a guy that didn’t like touching people, he was certainly determined to excel when he had to. Their palms pressed so fully together that Mick could make out the centers as well as the calluses. Len’s wiry fingers closed over the edges to catch at Mick’s knuckles... almost like a caress. But more Len-like.

Mick took a deep breath through his nose, smelling nothing but cold (he’d learned about skaters’ cough in one day of too much mouth-breathing), and tightened up all his muscles before relaxing them. He could do this. His body was his instrument and he showed it all the love it needed to get him through. He’d practiced with Lisa. He loved Len. This would be easy. All he had to do was circle the rink, then on one leg, then hit his well-practiced toe loop, circle again, and lift Len like he’d been dreaming of doing since Len suggested himself as a placeholder.

He was going to be perfect, and Len was going to be so impressed and pleased. Mick grinned. “You ready?” he asked.

Len nodded. “On three. One, two, three.”

Woohoo! They’d pushed off with the same foot. Mick could feel Len’s small instability in their conjoined hands, and he stayed a tiny bit back to offer some support. Their second feet came down at the same time too. Yes! They _had_ this. Synchronicity. All they had to do was keep this up for a circuit, then one-leg, then the toe loop, this again, and the lift. Why did ice skating have such a fanbase? It was _easy!_

Len tugged on Mick’s left hand. “You’re falling behind,” he griped. He tugged again, harder. “Get _up_ here.”

Mick felt it coming before the inevitable happened. He swerved into Len’s tugs, stumbled on his toe pick. _No!_ Mick’s body was a perfect instrument, and he tried to recover. So much better to use his second leg than to fall, but his right foot slipped at an unexpected angle, and Mick pitched forward and down.

Len came with him. Mick didn’t know which was worse: the bang against his nose or the angry yelling in his ears.

A shower of ice crystals cooled his hot head and melted into his eyes and ears. When Mick pushed back onto hands and knees, disentangling his left hand from under Len’s right elbow where it had somehow ended up, he saw Lisa’s scuffed beige skates in front of him.

“This is going to take a lot more practice,” she said. She poked her languishing brother with the toe of her skate boot. “Especially from you. This won’t work if you’re weighing down the team.”

Len puffed out a sigh that should have melted the ice beneath him. “The things I do for you.”

“You don’t see Mick complaining.”

 _Nope. No. Nuh-uh._ Mick shivered. “You leave me out of this, glider girl.”

“Both of you, back up.” Lisa clapped her hands. “We have to work on your co-positioning.”

***

Another week passed in much the same vein, except that Mick wasn’t sure where Len was living. Usually, they stuck together—best roommates in a shared apartment—but Len spent all his time _out_ now. Yeah, when he wasn’t out, they were at the rink together, but Mick and Len didn’t talk much during those times. Lisa was a harsh taskmistress, and she mostly had Len working and working and working. When the pair of them _did_ get to skate together, Len was so frustrated and exhausted that Mick couldn’t bring himself to start a conversation. Just patted his partner on the shoulder and helped him the best he could until they—every damn time—fell over in a tangle of arms and legs and skates that was colder, sharper, and much less sexy than Mick would have liked.

“Okay, no,” Lisa said the following Wednesday night at 8:15. The Zamboni driver glared at her, and she glared right back. The ice was theirs and theirs alone for another 45 minutes. “For best friends, you two are really out of synch. Even when we start with _lifts_.”

Mick wanted to say he liked lifts. He’d dreamed about them so long. And they were full of all the things he wanted: hand holding, showing off his strength, touching Len, being trusted by Len. But two times out of three, they _still_ ended in falling. Whether from the top (Len’s angle) or the bottom (Mick’s wiggling).

“Hey,” Mick had to stand up for his partner’s part in all this. “It was easier with you, Lise. You’re smaller.”

Len’s eyes widened when Mick said _Lise._ Right, he hadn’t been around when she’d told him to do it.

Lisa growled. “Not an excuse. I know how strong you are, and Lenny’s been working on his balance. You guys should _get_ this.”

Mick looked down and away. _Maybe me and Len just aren’t meant to be. Not close together anyway._ His face flushed with failure and thwarted dreams.

“Well then,” Len drawled with such great nasality he could have been Fran Drescher, “if we ought to be good but we aren’t—”

He didn’t get to finish his statement. And, judging from his wide-legged stance and the busted knuckles digging into his hips, Mick was pretty sure that statement was going to be something like _we suck at ice-skating, so Mick’s no good and you’ll have to keep going solo_.

“Exactly!” Lisa clapped her hands, overriding all of Len’s ideas. Her ponytail bounced in its bright pink scrunchie. “You’ll just have to act like _real pairs_ skaters.”

Len’s frown quirked upward, and he caught Mick’s eye, giving a one-armed shrug. That man simply could not say no to his little sister.

Mick, however, wanted some information please. “Whaddaya mean by ‘real’ pairs skaters?”

Lisa’s grin was a scary, scary thing. She glided to her bag, temporarily exciting the Zamboni driver who drifted her way only to be disappointed when she returned to the center ice with something shiny and metallic in her hands. She held out a hand for Len’s, and he obliged her by sliding his left into it.

Only to shriek with betrayal when she slapped a handcuff over his wrist.

Mick covered his ears and shrunk his shoulders down, trying not to make eye contact. This was between the siblings, and he didn’t want to get in the middle of it. If they were gonna fight, it was nothing to do with him. He was the backup, the muscle. _And_ he wasn’t sure whose side he ought to be on. They could work it out and let him know.

Lisa’s hand covered the clasp on Len’s wrist. “You can get out of this any time, you big baby, and you know it.”

A not-at-all-subtle tilt of Len’s head conceded her point.

“Now, Mick, give me your right hand,” she demanded.

“Ah...” Mick stuffed the appendage into his back pocket.

“Now,” she growled, holding out her empty palm flat.

Mick’s hand flew out of his pocket and into her grip before he’d even thought about it. How could such a little, young thing could be so commanding? He shared a commiserating look with Len over Lisa’s head.

With a click, Mick felt the warm metal close around his right wrist. Good thing he wasn’t right handed. Except, wait, he was. “Hey, how come Len gets to keep his right hand free?”

Len reassured him, “It’s only for a little while.”

Lisa talked over her brother, “Because he needs to pick locks, and you can still hit people with your left hand.”

Mick shrugged. It was true.

Len gave another squawk. “Just how long are we going to be in these?”

Mick tried to raise his hands to his ears again, but he got caught in the cuffs and ended up bending down and staring at the ice while he tried to keep his balance. This close, he could smell Len’s winter pine cologne.

Lisa sniffed. “Normally, pairs skaters wear belts for this sort of thing, but we had cuffs on hand. And you’ll wear them until you can work together.”

“We have lives, Lise.” Len looked pleadingly at Mick, who just shrugged. Those eyes might have been beautiful, but he knew Len wanted to keep his sister happy. Plus, now he could find out where Len was going during the nights. Len sighed. “All right. We’ll try it.”

Lisa gave them both an amazingly bright smile. “Let’s try—”

Over the loudspeaker, the Zamboni driver boomed, “Hey, you. Get off the ice. We’re closing.”

Lisa waved up to him and shooed her men off to the bleachers. Len tried to turn left. Mick tried to turn right. They both hit the ground hard.

“Fuck!” Mick wasn’t sure which of them had said it, but his elbow had hit the ice in just the wrong spot and he would’ve believed it was him.

Len didn’t move. Head on the cold surface and legs bunched up under him.

“Hey, partner.” Mick nudged him with a knee, and Len groaned dramatically. Totally fine then. “C’mon. We can get Chinese.” Len rattled their joined wrists meaningfully, and Mick amended, “Maybe order a pizza.” Mick tucked his legs and came to a crouched position like he was going to start a deadlift. Quick maneuvering got his free arm under Len’s shoulders, and he helped his buddy up to standing. “Push off left, okay?”

They only fell three more times before getting in the car and realizing that Len was going to have to drive it. Mick and both Snarts stumbled out on shaky legs when they reached their apartment-of-the-moment. He was going to be so glad when this phase was over.

***

The cuffs were even more annoying than Mick would have originally predicted. April rains frustrated him more than usual when his wrists got wet and welty. Nothing would burn outside, and Len wouldn’t let him do more than watch the gas stovetop in their apartment.

No matter where they went or what time of day, the cuffs made life difficult.

 _A peaceful afternoon at home:_  
Mick stared blankly at the TV while Len held a paperback in his free hand. Mick didn’t want to be here anymore. He wanted to go out, to hit things, to _move_.

Fuck ice skating. Fuck Lisa. Fuck Len. ( _Mmmm, yes please_.) He slammed his left hand down on the couch-side table, reaching forwards with blind fingers until he reached the drawer at its front.

Len didn’t look up from his book. “Don’t even think about it.”

Mick closed the drawer again, lockpicks still safely cocooned inside. “Fine!” He stood up, forcing Len’s left arm to straighten at an upward angle. “Let’s go out.”

“I’m reading.” Len still didn’t look up. Why did Mick find this asshole attractive?

“Can we move to the gym at least?” Their apartment had a little corner with a Chuck-Norris-approved Total Gym and a punching bag.

Len sighed and stood. He led them to the gym corner, and Mick couldn’t even be mad at him for his dramatic reluctance. Finally! They were _doing_ something other than just sitting around.

Len immediately sprawled over the Total Gym’s bench, head at one end, and knees bent so his feet rested on the seat.

 _Really, Len? That’s how you want it?_ Mick shrugged, jostling his partner’s reading hand. He still had a punching bag over here, after all. And if he couldn’t get it to stop swinging, that was about to be Len’s problem more than his own. Mick started with some easy jabs, fist _thunk_ ing into the leather to cause a satisfying sway. A few hooks next, which—oops—moved the bag into Len’s space like a dangerous pendulum.

Len leaned back in time with the movements, never looking up from his book. He hadn’t turned a page in minutes, though, so Mick was winning. He had to fight down a triumphant smirk. _That’s right, buddy. You make me do these things, you don’t get to read._

Barely trying to keep his handcuffed arm still, Mick tested out a bob-and-weave. Yeah, it would work. Len didn’t look any more angry than before. Bob, weave, uppercut, weave, hook, weave, elbow strike—

Len fell off the bench, sprawled face-down on the floor. His book went skidding off under the stereo cabinet. “Damn it, Mick!”

 _An evening at a bar, complete with bar fight:_  
Let it never be said that Mick and Len had partnered up purely because they were in the right places at the right times. They also had things in common: like stealing and confidence games and bar fights. Mick could turn any outing into a bar fight—so long as there was a bar—and Len always cleaned up with him.

One rainy evening, they took themselves to a seedy place. The place was thick with cigarette smoke. It was their reward for a day of skating and not killing each other. Aerosmith wailed from a jukebox.

Mick ordered a beer and reached for it with his handcuffed hand first. Good thing Len caught the sliding bottle before it went sailing, but his slip brought attention to their confined wrists.

“You boys on the run?” asked a wry bartender.

Len pretended to smile at the joke. “Something like that.” And then he managed to parley the situation into flirting with every single woman who came near them.

Mick was apparently forgotten as Len charmed the ladies with his silver bracelet and golden tongue.

Mick’s teeth were already grinding when an angry man in flannel and whisky stains barreled into his back. The guy’s breath smelled flammable when he mocked, “Is this some kind of kinky sex game?”

Those were fighting words in a bar like this. Mick and Len shared a smirk, for once on the same page. They’d always been good at bar fights.

Len’s smooth drawl ensured the fight was gonna start: “You want to join in?”

The drunk man threw a telegraphed punch at Mick’s face, and Mick blocked it with his left hand. Easy as anything. For a follow up, he decked the guy with a right cross, left uppercut combination.

The right cross took out his opponent. The left uppercut caught Len in the gut. Because, of course, Mick had pulled Len directly across his body.

It only took a few minutes before Mick and Len were bruised and bloody from grappling with each other. Lisa wasn’t impressed when she came with a cab to get them.

 _Sleepy mornings in bed:_  
Mick was going to strangle him the next time Len got out of bed to do ballet. Ballet! Sure, it was good for balance, and it somehow added to his partner’s catlike grace, but neither Mick’s bed nor his night table made a good barre. At least Len tried to practice while Mick was sleeping, but he was pretty sure that stemmed more from a desire not to be witnessed than the goodness of his cold, cold heart.

Rain beat down on the windows. Weak morning light smudged in through jacquard curtains they’d stolen during a home invasion last year.

And the bed went _squeak squeak_ as Len tried to put a foot up on it and moved his arms and torso through some sort of routine without moving his right hand too much.

 _Oh, no. Not the pliés._ Up, down, up, down, up, down went Len. And thus up, down, up, down, up, down went the wrist attached to him. The cuffs’ chain rippled like a windchime, and Mick’s hand couldn’t help but rise a little bit on the _up_ section of the cycle.

Mick squeezed his lids shut and pretended to sleep even harder than before. It was too early to deal with this crap.

***

“You’re looking a bit better?” Lisa said one evening as Mick and Len skated a circle around the rink. It sounded more like a question than a statement.

“We haven’t fallen over yet,” Mick agreed.

Len snorted and overcorrected, stumbled. They both crashed to the ice.

Instead of getting up, they laid there, side by side with tangled inner legs. Cold water melted in through their clothes.

Lisa glided over to sit on Len’s stomach. “Let’s talk about the music for my short program. I’m thinking about the introductory section of ‘Enter Sandman.’”

“No words,” Len said on a groan. Trust him to have memorized the skating rules.

“That’s why I want the _introduction_.”

Mick didn’t have to join the argument. There was a surefire winner. “We’ll see what Coach thinks,” he said.

***

Mick couldn’t believe it had taken him so long to figure the cuffs out. He blamed it on being right handed. Everything went more easily so long as they had a body part touching. It was all about knowing their relative positions in the universe.

The best part of this: Mick was in contact with Len all the time. Len never flinched away from him these days, not even when one of them kicked the other in their necessarily shared bed. Shared bed! Mick may have had a terrible time hiding his reactions to that, but it was so worth it. He couldn’t believe he’d ever found the cuffs annoying.

Next time he got arrested, he was throwing himself into those silvery spangles. (No. That was going a bit far.)

Still, wearing them wasn’t nearly as bad now that he’d cracked the code.

 _A peaceful afternoon at home:_  
Mick did leg presses while Len sprawled next to him, leaning against the Total Gym’s upgright support, book in hand.

 _An evening at the bar, complete with bar fight:_  
Mick held both of Len’s hands and pulled him forward. Len kicked back into the opponent behind him, leaning onto Mick for balance. They grinned at each other, and Mick had to take a swig of beer in order not to kiss his partner. When this skating thing was over, he was going to need time to get his head on straight.

Straight. Hah.

 _Ballet class:_  
“They have a former Olympic champion who trains there!” Lisa pitched the ballet class she sent them to.

Len shrugged like he hadn’t been practicing his ballet exercises on the regular. “If you say so.”

When they arrived at the studio, earlier than anyone else, Mick dragged his companion to the barre. “You gotta catch me up before the instructor gets here,” he hissed in Len’s ear. “What am I supposed to do with this thing?” Nothing pleased Len more than getting to show off specialized knowledge, and nothing pleased Mick more than Len’s hands on his legs to get him into the correctly turned out position.

The instructor showed up five minutes later, along with six other beginner students. She didn’t look happy with Mick and Len’s unorthodox outfits—tights and leotards that still smelled like the plastic they were packaged in, sure, but this was a no-jewelry studio. Still, she nodded her approval of their “spatial awareness” (by which she meant they didn’t run into each other anymore), and their leg positions were apparently perfect (score one for Len’s perfectionism).

In the second half of class, they did jumps across the floor. From one corner of the room to the other, it was _chasse, step, leap, repeat_. The first time, Mick wobbled into Len’s shoulder.

Len caught him, and they tried again. That time, Len’s right arm bounced like a dropped marionette’s.

The instructor hummed and stopped them before they could try a third _chasse, step, leap._ “Your jumps are different heights,” she said. “You, tall one, Mick. Try putting less power into the stepping leg.”

By the end of the hour, they matched.

***

“You know,” said Lisa, “it’s almost May. Regionals are in September, and I haven’t even skated with my alleged partner.” She liked the word _alleged_ these days _._ He and Len were raising her right.

“This was your idea,” said Len.

Mick just patted her hand.

***

The handcuffs made skating practice a bit awkward, but less so than Mick might’ve thought. Their grip barely slipped these days when skating side-by-side. And the overhead press lifts didn’t require separation at all.

Sometimes, Mick forgot they were hooked together.

 _A peaceful afternoon at home:_  
Lisa sat across from Mick and Len, doing her homework at their kitchen table. On the stereo, Bryan Adams crooned about doing something “All for Love.” Len rolled his eyes at Mick, and Mick shook his head. He knew what the boring musician was getting at.

As one, they reached for the sodas on the table in front of them. They leaned forward at the same angle. Both their right hands stretched for the cans. They took concurrent sips and settled the metal back onto the table with the sound of only a single _clink._

Lisa smiled into her biology textbook.

 _An evening bar fight:_  
Mick’s blood pounded with certainty. Beside him, a bottle broke on the bar, and its breaker jumped into the fray.

Mick and Len bared their teeth at each other—this was a _fight_ —then turned to face two men coming at them. With the same uppercut at the same angle, they knocked both guys out.

 _An evening robbery:_  
The bar fight had gone so well, left them with so much adrenaline, that Len suggested knocking over a video store. That never required too much planning and always resulted in popcorn, tapes, and cash.

Alarms shrieked. Sirens wailed. (The Blockbuster owner was getting crafty.)

They ran out the door.

They turned right, racing at the same pace—neither falling behind or pulling ahead—and ducked into an alley. Safe, Mick reached into his coat to produce a rental video, the only one he’d managed to grab.

He held out the case to see Len holding out his own. Mick laughed, air filling his belly with happiness.

They were both _Back to the Future._

Len was laughing too, though silently like his childhood had taught him. The sheer joy on his partner’s face stole Mick’s breath away, hitching his laughter. Any job you walked away from was a good job, but a successful job was the best kind. Maybe the video store hadn’t gone so well, but they were definitely managing the handcuffed part.

Mick tossed his movie copy over his shoulder. They only needed one after all.

***

The following day, after watching _Back to the Future_ yet again, Mick and Len hit the rink. They had a few hours to practice before Lisa arrived.

All the moves felt easy, relaxed, natural. They skated on four legs or two; their leaps timed to the disco music piped over the speakers for free skate.

Just after 3 p.m., onto ice shared with only six other skaters before the school-crowd rush, Lisa glided to meet them. “Show me,” she said.

It felt good. Mick knew they looked good. All the cross overs went smoothly; all the lifts structured on confident and non-shuddering hands. They leaned into their turns with coordinated synchrony.

When they came to a stop in front of Lisa, Mick grinned and dipped his partner unexpectedly. Feeling the shifts in Mick’s muscles—or just being a mind-reader—Len went with it. Their ending pose made a perfect, strong triangle.

Lisa clapped. Mick righted his partner, and they stood before her, a united front.

She smirked and dangled a key in the air. “You ready to get out of those?”

It’d be kind of sad not to be hooked to Len anymore. Mick always knew where his partner was and what he was doing. They didn’t go on separate jobs or live separate lives. It was nice. He was gonna miss it.

His wrist felt suddenly lighter and cooler.

Len held the cuffs in his right thumb and forefinger. “You want these back?” he asked his sister, who hadn’t yet unlocked anything.

She giggled and snatched them. “Any chance you want to try the whole routine like I told you? Now that the cuffs are off? I mean, you have to prove Mick can do the moves.”

Right. Because that was what this whole exercise had been about. Proving that Mick could make a good pairs skater.

“Sure, sis,” said Len just as Mick asked, “You ready?”

Skating without the cuffs was even better than skating with them. When they got to the places where they’d previously gone straight through the jumps, they tossed in Len’s favorite double toe loops (the only jump he could do double). Their sit-spins rotated in time. For a throw jump, which they knew an unpracticed Len could never land, Mick threw his partner in the air and then caught him in a bridal carry ten feet further down.

It was amazing. Mick felt like his body was meant for this. Pushing his physical limits. Structuring his moves around Len. All he needed was a bonfire, and this moment would be perfection.

“Wonderful, wonderful,” Coach said as they skated back to Lisa. _And when did she get here?_ Clearly, the woman had a magic talent for being wherever she needed at any given time. “You see? Lisa was right to choose your friend,” she told Len.

“My turn,” Lisa said. She shed her jacket and pushed it into Len’s hands.

Len skated backward, giving them space, and Mick felt the distance between them stretch and stretch until his knowledge of Len’s position disappeared. For weeks, he’d worked. He could tell where Len was, what position he was in, whether or not he’d have to step over him to get to the TV remote. And now that was just... gone. Mick’s heart beat a double rhythm. _It’s not like he’s actually a part of your body. Get it together, idiot,_ he told himself.

He took a deep breath and focused on Lisa. Len’s beloved sister. His sorta-sister/sorta-friend. His _actual_ skating partner.

Her smile was wider than her brother’s had ever been, so long as Mick had known him. Her hair bobbed where her brother’s had long been shaved off. Her hands were held out to him, crossed at the forearms.

Mick laughed at her enthusiasm, both because he was amused and to hide the emptiness in his arms (in his heart). With extreme seriousness, he crossed his own arms, took her hands, and spun them both around a few times. Yeah, she barely weighed anything. Not compared to her lazy brother who would fall asleep on a couch while they were handcuffed together, making Mick carry him to bed if Mick was so needy as to want said bed.

Mick and Lisa skated the version of her routine that he knew three times, always to yelled suggestions from Coach. When they came to a rest in front of her, Lisa’s jacket was neatly folded over the Plexiglas that separated the rink from the seats. And Len was gone.

***

Lisa and Mick worked together easily. He only had to make his steps a bit shorter, and she did the rest of the work to match him. When they did jumps or practiced more _artistic_ moves, it was clear Mick was the weaker skater. As it should have been. Lisa had years of training toward an Olympic future. Mick was just the guy on hand when she needed a partner.

“Don’t even say that,” she admonished after a practice in mid-July. Outside was scorching hot, but the rink was as frigid as ever. “No one throws his partner as high as you do.”

He nodded acknowledgement of the fact. With the distances he got her, Lisa consistently had time for two and a half Axels, more than enough to wow a judge. Technically, they’d get more points out of a triple Salchow, but no one had done a triple Axel yet in pairs skating, and Lisa was working on it.

Coach was pleased with them. Lisa was happy. Mick was working his body to its limits in new ways. He got to light fires in alleyways and on balconies now that the rain had gone (and that Len wasn’t cuffed to him). Since he was doing the younger Snart a favor, the older one bankrolled all his needs, so he didn’t have to go on jobs.

Everything should have been perfect.

But he missed it. He missed _Len._ Len was practically never around anymore, especially compared to when they were cuffed together. When Mick _did_ see his criminal partner, Len had little time for conversation. His eyes focused on blueprints for a break-in at the new Sun Microsystems’ campus in Keystone.

At 8 p.m. on a hot August night, the rink closed, Coach let him and Lisa go, and Lisa snagged his arm. Her hair bounced in its scrunchie. “We’re going for ice cream,” she said.

Considering it was so hot they could smell rotting garbage from inside the rink’s front door, ice cream sounded like a good idea. “Don’t think we’re supposed to do that,” he said all the same.

When he and Len had been skate partners, Len had been a stickler for nutrition. Len liked rules—liked knowing them and the reasons behind them, liked breaking them when those reasons no longer applied—and that meant Mick had to follow them too. Since getting off the hook for figure skating, Len kept their apartment stocked with the same foods, but Mick had seen more than one take-out bag getting grease on the Sun architectural plans.

“So don’t tell Coach,” Lisa said. She threw herself into his car the moment he unlocked it and cranked the AC. “Don’t tell Lenny either.”

***

“So,” said Lisa as they sat across from each other in the sugar-scented Baskin-Robbins on Main Street, “when are you finally going to get together with my brother?”

Mick had just taken a bite of his Vanilla Burnt Almond waffle cone when she asked, which gave him time to think about the answer. He didn’t want to lie to Lisa. _Did Len say something?_ He crunched on an almond instead of biting his lip. He swallowed. “We’re just friends,” he said.

Lisa gave him her best _oh, puh-lease_ face. “I saw how you touched him on the ice.”

“I’m sure I touch you the same way. Maybe a bit more delicately. You’re so small.” It was a weak rejoinder. They both knew Mick treated her with the utmost care. Usually when he picked people up, he threw them across bars or out windows. Lisa and Len were the only exceptions.

She blew out an upward breath, ruffling her wispy bangs. “You do whatever he wants,” she pointed out. “Don’t pretend you agreed to skate because you wanted to please _me._ ”

Mick’s eyes closed like that could block out the implications. He took another bite of his ice cream, giving his mouth and his hands something to do. It was all true, of course. He’d done this whole thing for Len, to make him happy and to get his attention. And had Len said anything? No. So either he was gently letting Mick down, or the possibility of anything happening was so unlikely that he hadn’t even noticed. “We’ve got a good thing going. No sense in changing it.”

Lisa stabbed her ice cream with her spoon. “He trusts you, Mick. He trusts you with his home, his jobs, and _me._ Do you get how big that is?”

“I’ll.... think about it.” As if he could think about anything else now.

Lisa let him stew in his worry about what would happen if he said something to Len, and about what his life would be like if he _never_ said anything. Mick could be a best friend and criminal partner. He didn’t _need_ to be a romantic plus-one too. He could be Len’s roommate, his go-to guy for bar fights and heists. He could feed future-Len’s future-cats when Len had a date with some yet-unmet woman. He could.

They finished their ice cream in silence.

Mick crumpled the cone-paper in his hand and pushed it into the trash can with more force than necessary. “I’ll take you home.”

***

In the middle of the night on September 27, 1994, Mick’s freshly boosted Beemer rolled into Edina, MN. Lisa snoozed on the passenger seat’s heated leather, and Coach would be meeting them at the little motel she’d booked.

Len couldn’t make it. He was busy with his father, doing last-minute prep for the Sun Microsystems job. _Damn Lewis._ Lisa looked like a cherub, light brown hair making a halo under a glowing streetlamp. _Does he even know she’s competing?_ He probably didn’t. Len didn’t like telling their father about Lisa’s Olympic dreams, probably for fear Lewis would find a way to crush them.

Lisa jerked awake when Mick parked the car under a flickering light in the faded parking lot. “Lenny?” she asked in a whisper.

“G’back to sleep,” Mick rumbled. “He’ll be here before we go on the ice.”

“M’wake.” She sat up straight and squinted into the darkness. “You see Coach?” Lisa opened her door, yawned, and tumbled sleepily out of the car. Her knees hit the pavement. “Oww,” she whined.

Mick’s shoulders loosened. When Len whined, it usually meant he was fine. The weirdo wouldn’t call attention to a real injury. _But is Lisa the same?_ Mick rushed around the car to her side. “Lise! You okay?”

She was already on her feet, left knee skinned. “I’m fine.” She took a step forward and her right leg wobbled, enough that Mick reached out to support her. She slapped his hand out of her way. “I _said_ I’m fine,” she snapped.

Mick sucked in a breath through his teeth. That didn’t sound good, but he wasn’t getting a more detailed assessment out of her right now. “Let’s go put ice on it,” he said.

She nodded and led the way towards the open door where Coach was waving. If she couldn’t compete tomorrow, Len was going to kill him.

***

 _Welcome to the Eastern Great Lakes Regional Figure Skating Championships!_ read the banner at the giant rink’s entrance. Coach escorted Mick and Lisa through huddled groups of young skaters and older mentors. She marched right past the registration area, and no one challenged her.

It was over-warm in the lobby, loud with jostling hopefuls and excited fans, but cooler in the greenroom where leotards glittered and fake eyelashes drooped. Ready and waiting, Lisa jittered. Her right leg (wrapped in shimmering tights) was propped on a box, and the subject of many pitying glances.

Coach hadn’t booked them any practice ice, so no one knew what to think of Lisa and Mick, except that her leg wasn’t up to snuff and that their costumes looked like upward-licking flames.

“I can still skate, Coach,” Lisa said. Her mouth was firm, but her eyes constantly wavered to her leg. “It’s not that bad.”

“We shall see,” Coach said. “I want to watch you walk before I make any decisions.”

Lisa swallowed hard. “I’ll walk to the staging area when it’s our turn.”

Coach looked to Mick who only shrugged a sequined shoulder. He wasn’t getting in the middle of that. He was just the muscle, like usual. He liked it that way. Less responsibility.

When the clock in the green room read 9:52, a voice came over the loudspeaker. “Snart-Rory to the ice. Snart-Rory to the ice.”

Mick levered to standing on his skates and held out a hand to his younger partner. She waved it away and swung her leg off the box. Pushed to her feet.

Hissed.

 _Not good._ Coach was shaking her head, and Lisa gritted her teeth but had a tear rolling down her cheek.

“Whaddaya want to do?” Mick asked.

Lisa balled her hands into fists. “Coach said she wanted to see me walk. I’m going to walk.” And she did. Lisa stomped to the chilly on-deck area. Her right hip swiveled too much, and her face scared people out of her way.

They were up in two performances, but Mick was pretty sure they weren’t going to skate after all.

The current skaters’ music faded out—something with too many trumpets—and in the brief silence, Mick heard sirens outside. Even in Edina, there was plenty of crime. Mick grinned. Felt like home.

New music picked up—plinky pianos this time—and Mick jumped when at his shoulder Len asked, “What did I miss?” His hot breath blew in Mick’s ear, warming him from tips to booted toes.

“Lenny! You made it!” Lisa was all smiles, and she held her arms out to her brother, demanding he come closer and hug her.

...usually she ran to him and took a hug whether he wanted it or not.

Len noticed the change of behavior. Of course he did. “What’s wrong?” His black jeans and black turtleneck were starkly _boring_ compared to the spangled skate costumes.

Her smile became more genuine, if calculating, even as her arms waved frantically. “No, this is perfect. Now that you’re here, we can do this.”

Len shook his head, already disagreeing with her plan. “ _What_ exactly are you thinking?”

“I sprained my knee,” she said.

His horrified look quickly turned to comprehension. Mick wished _he_ knew what exactly was being comprehended, but Len was the boss for a reason. What he said would go. “No, Lise.”

“Come on,” she whined. “I can’t skate, but I’ll be fine by the next round. Only I can’t advance if I don’t place here.”

“I’m not you,” Len said, picking a flaw in her logic.

Logic Mick was starting to understand. His heart beat harder under his red, sparkly leotard. He hadn’t practiced with Len in months.

“Teams have substitutions all the time,” Lisa countered.

Coach nodded to back Lisa up. “I have entered you as M. Rory and L. Snart. Everyone knows who L. Snart is meant to be, but it is technically not a lie.”

“Please, Lenny.” Lisa’s eyes were big and watery. “Just advance me to the next round.”

Len knew, and Mick knew, that Lisa’s tears were a fake threat. That didn’t make them any less effective. He fell for it. He always did. “Fine.” He blew a heavy breath, then his eyes went as panicked as his sister’s. “I didn’t bring skates!”

Coach held out a small bag. Len took it, peeked inside, and disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived.

Too soon, the previous skaters’ music faded out, leaving outside sirens as the only background yet again. Over the speakers, a male voice announced, “Next in senior pairs figure skating we have Mick Rory and Lisa Snart!”

“Okay, I’m here. Let’s go.” Len didn’t even sound out of breath when he wobbled into Mick’s shoulder.

Mick took Len’s hands in promenade position, the first time they’d been so close in months. With the roar of the crowd, the chill of the ice, the adrenaline still running through his body from the close calls, Mick could feel every point of contact like fire on his skin. Fire like the sequin flames on Len’s leotard that had once been a big joke on Lisa’s part. A joke that had just become reality.

The music started, and they took their starting pose. Louder than the first strings of Tchaikovsky, the announcer corrected, “Sorry. Mick Rory and _Leonard_ Snart.”

A chorus of whispers erupted in the crowds, but Mick only had ears for the music. Together, he and Len pushed off into their first glide. He’d forgotten how natural this felt, how well Len matched him. After weeks and weeks handcuffed together, years and years silently in love with his partner, nothing made more sense than keeping inside Len’s orbit.

They leaned down, perfectly in time, and lifted their right legs, then shifted their hips to turn ninety degrees. Still one-legged, they leaned into a close turn.

A flurry of gasps came from the judges’ table, a table which had appeared unmoved by a same-sex pair.

Their right legs came down, and they accelerated, gearing up for their first jump.

“I’ve got a double Salchow,” Len said.

Mick hummed. “It’s an Axel in the program.” But he was already preparing for a back-foot takeoff instead of a forward edge.

They made the jump, landed side-by-side, and drifted closer to make sure their shoulders touched as they reached down to touch the ice and then twisted to skate backwards, chests proud to the ceiling. The crowd clapped.

Mick looked out into the seats, and noticed a disturbing number of uniformed cops filing into the aisles.

“We get better points for nailing the Salchow than me flubbing the Axel,” Len said as he eased backward into Mick’s space.

Mick’s hands were strong and sure, confidently cradling his partner, as Len went back and back and back until he lay like a board. His body almost touched the ice, supported only by Mick’s hands under his shoulders and a single skate. This trick wasn’t in the program, and it didn’t win them any technique points, but it was dramatic and stylish.

“Whoo!” Lisa yelled from the kiss and cry. “That’s my brother!”

Mick drew a crop circle on the ice with his partner’s skate before pulling Len upward so they were eye to eye. He put one hand to the side of Len’s face, and Len mirrored him on the next beat of the music. Together they swayed right, left, right before pushing out together and working into a few leaps across the ice. Like in ballet class.

None of those moves were in the program. But Lisa had a number of jumps that Len couldn’t do, and they hadn’t practiced most of the lifts either. Mick didn’t wonder that they’d gone off-program and without even discussing it. He just followed Len’s body, sometimes before Len appeared to know what was coming next.

A grin grew on Mick’s face, even though Coach had drummed serious facial expressions into him. She said Mick’s smiles looked a bit “damaged.” He figured she was looking for a gentle way to say _deranged_ or _psycho_ or _like you’re a criminal arsonist who hasn’t visited his therapist in months and just found a gas can and a road flare._

In a move they’d practiced many times before, and that _was_ in the program, Len and Mick joined hands, and Mick hoisted his partner up. Len’s legs went wide and straight in more of a split than he’d been able to manage previously. All those ballet lessons were paying off; Mick would have to ask later if Len had been keeping up with them.

The dismount from this lift was supposed to be a throw jump. Lisa had been working on the triple Axel, the first to ever be seen in pairs competition. Mick wanted to ask Len what he wanted to do. He wanted to at least make eye contact and get some sort of confirmation that a throw was the way to go. But he couldn’t see Len’s face even if he _did_ look up, so he was just going to have to go with it.

Some cops had come down the aisles to loiter at the rink’s edge, blocking the views of paying customers. They didn’t make it any further, held back by fans and security.

Len squeezed Mick’s hands hard. After relaxing the fingers, he tightened them one at a time. With the beat of the music. Five, six, seven, _eight._

On the beat, Mick threw Len higher and stronger than he’d ever dared with Lisa. His blood rushed in his ears like an expanding fire, drowning out the music with joyful abandon.

Above him, Len crossed his legs and did a simple toe loop. And another.

The crowd clapped politely. Lisa cheered from the side-lines.

And another.

The crowd clapped harder. The music swelled—tinny—over the speakers.

And another.

The crowd surged to its feet and screamed.

Len might have had time for a fifth toe loop, but instead he twisted into a more horizontal position, and—just like in old rehearsals—Mick skated right under his partner to catch him bridal style.

More screaming from the crowd, and also from Mick’s arm muscles which hadn’t quite expected that level of speed and force in his falling partner. Mick started to tip forward, out of synch for the first time since starting the skate. Before he could bog Len down as well, he released his partner to the ice.

He caught a flash of Len’s grin before Len switched their arm placement and _pushed._ Mick went sideways and down.

Only to be caught in a classic dip by Len’s right arm. Len’s left pointed to the ceiling, and his eyes were trained on Mick’s. He wore the most pleased smile Mick had ever seen. Mick’s heart pounded, from adrenaline and pride and sheer giddiness. He let his own left arm trail onto the ice— _see, we meant to execute a role-swapping dip right here—_ until Len pulled him upright.

The music faded out.

A silent beat. And then the crowd reacted. The rink was a cacophony of cheering and clapping... and booing. Everyone had an opinion about that performance, and no one wanted to be quiet about it.

Len nudged Mick’s shoulder with his own, and they took a lap. They skated so close to one another that when Len had to dodge a fallen floral bouquet, he did so by pressing against Mick like Mick was a wall and Len was a thief.

Together, they waved to the audience. Len made a point of waving to the cops stymied by standing and applauding fans.

“Don’t suppose you know why the pigs are here,” Mick asked his partner as they went sideways, crossing left over right, feet so close that they’d trip if they weren’t perfectly aware of one another.

Len turned his head and made a too-innocent _Who me?_ face, and then they were at the kiss and cry.

Lisa grabbed her brother in a strong hug the second he was close enough, and Coach gripped Mick’s shoulder with a red manicured hand. A local news reporter shoved her camera in Mick’s face.

“That was quite the performance,” said the reporter, obviously her rote opener. She had a gleam in her eye, undoubtedly thrilled to get something more exciting than pure figure skating on the record. “You certainly confused the MC. When did you know you’d be skating a...”—she hunted for the right way to express their unorthodox partnering—“a mens pairs program?”

Mick smirked. Coach took a breath, ready to save the team from anything unpolitic that Mick might say.

And a cop pushed and shoved his way into their little booth. “You!” he yelled at Len, pointing an accusatory finger.

Len held out a hand to shake the cop’s. “Leonard Snart,” he introduced himself.

Over the loudspeaker, the scores began to come in. “Technical: 5.3, 5.2, 5.6, 4.8, 5.1.”

Lisa sucked a breath through her teeth. “Come on. Come on.” Those technical scores weren’t good enough, Mick knew, not unless the presentation scores were a lot better. “Come on, Artistic Merit.”

The cop drew his hand back, looking at it as if unsure how he’d ended up exchanging pleasantries with a criminal. “You were at the Sun building. We’ve got a print!”

 _Already?_ Mick’s eyebrows went up.

“Shhhh,” Coach said to the cop. She perched on her toes, knuckles tight and shoulders quivering.

“I just performed in an ice skating competition,” Len said. He gave the cop a withering look. “Do you know how much effort and time goes into that? I’ve been here since noon warming up and getting into costume.” This was patently untrue, but everyone in the box nodded along with his lie, as did the few eavesdroppers lucky enough to have seats near the kiss and cry.

The loudspeaker crackled. “Presentation: 5.9, 5.9, 6.0.”

Lisa jumped on her good leg and hugged her brother tightly, wrongfooting the cop even further.

Giant cheers went up from the crowd. Mick’s chest went tight. They might have done it! They might have a sensible score for a winning couple.

Did this make them a couple? They were so in tune that Olympic-grade judges could see how well Mick and Len moved together. That had to mean something.

“6.0, 6.0.”

Mick choked on his amazement. _Three perfect scores._ He could have flown. He could have spontaneously combusted. He grabbed Len’s shoulders, or Len grabbed his, or both. They looked into each other’s eyes, mouths gaping with victorious laughter.

Mick’s blood beat with the thrill of the moment. He could taste victory like copper on his tongue. He gripped Len’s shoulders harder, transmitting his happiness and channeling Len’s own back to him. _We got three perfect scores!_ And then he pulled his partner closer and kissed him.

Len’s mouth was hot-cold against his. Fire and ice and humid breath. Mick could have died happy for the touch, the softness of the lips, the hardness of bony shoulders under his hands.

And then his stomach flipped in the bad way that precedes needing to use a toilet. What was he thinking? He’d _kissed_ Len. He’d kissed _Len._ No matter what Mick wanted, Len didn’t want this. He’d never so much as hinted that they should even _touch_ more, much less in a couple-y way. Other than couples skating.

_Oh no._

Len hadn’t gone stiff in his embrace, but he hadn’t gone lax either. In fact, he hadn’t moved at all. Of course he hadn’t. He’d never denied Mick’s desire for touch, accustoming himself to being clapped on the shoulder or punched in the arm, but he was never happy about it. And here Mick was just trampling all his boundaries and ruining their friendship. Things would never be the same.

Len would never want to see him again. This would be Mick’s last skate with a Snart. No, maybe Len would let him skate with Lisa, but he’d never come around. Mick would have to know that the siblings’ relationship was faltering all because _he’d_ made a mistake. He’d have to see Lisa at practices and wonder whether Len had dropped her off and refrain from asking her about what was going on in her brother’s life.

_What have I done?_

Slow, horrified, Mick forced his fingers to loosen on Len’s shoulders, though Len’s remained on him. The roar in his ears—from his blood, from the crowds—faded to mute. His toes tingled in the skate boots like a warning that his legs might soon stop holding him up.

He pulled back from Len’s mouth, not sure what to say. “Ah, Len, I—”

Len tugged him forward, and their lips crashed together again. It was hard, and it hurt, and Mick thought he might have cut his lip on one of Len’s teeth.

His heart soared. It was perfect.

Mick’s lips drew into a smile, which only made kissing more difficult.

Beside them, Lisa bounced on her good leg. “Oh my God, we’re in second!”

Coach told the reporter and the cop, “I am very proud of my skaters. They worked hard for this.”

The reporter whispered, “I am getting promoted. This is the best thing that has ever happened here.”

And Len continued to kiss him. Len’s arm wound around Mick’s waist, and Mick let himself get bent back into a more dramatic stance. He didn’t care about posing for the crowd or for the reporter’s camera. So long as Len kept kissing him, so long as they could move forward from here, he was good.

Len pulled back, giving Mick’s top lip a playful lick, and Mick opened dazed eyes to focus on his partner’s face.

“Hi,” Len said.

Mick would have made fun of him for that uninspired line, but he felt about the same. That was all he could come up with to say. It was greeting of their new status, acknowledgement of what had happened. “Hey,” Mick replied.

“Are you kidding me?” Lisa asked.

Len laughed at her and kissed Mick again. Mick _loved_ figure skating.

***

_Epilogue:_

It should have been an easy bank robbery. Mick and Len had joined up with a crew who’d gotten them past the alarms and into the vault room where Len would crack the safe, then they’d all get away with bundles of cash.

“Fuck fuck fuck.” The job’s boss was freaking out. Everything had gone great until they’d reached the actual vault. Surprise! A pressure plate stretched from the front of the vault room until a foot in front of the door Len was supposed to work on. The distance was a good ten feet. It hadn’t been in the plans.

“Fuck,” the boss said again.

Mick and Len exchanged grins. Yeah, ten feet was nothing.

Mick cleared the other muscle guys out of the way and gestured to his partner. They both took a short run, clasped hands, and then Mick hoisted and tossed Len forward. Len, the show off, did a double toe loop— _tsk, only a double_ —and stuck the landing on the other side of the pressure plate.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is brought to you by my watching THE CUTTING EDGE and THE CUTTING EDGE 2 back to back a few months ago. (I don’t know why this fic took months. It’s not that long!) And then I realized that it’d work beautifully with poor Lisa Snart needing a doubles partner. Then I realized that based on timing, etc., this whole thing could easily be canon. And then I had to write it.
> 
> Apologies for:  
> 1 - Messy grammar and structure because I don't have a beta. All mistakes are my own.  
> 2 - Skating details. I have no idea how old you have to be for seniors skate, what time things actually start at Regional Championships, or anything about figure skating really. Everything I know about these things, I learned from the US Figure Skating webpages and brief glances at Wikipedia (which weren’t super forthcoming about what time competitions were, but I remembered my mom watching nighttime televised versions when I was younger, so I’m going with that).
> 
> Cut story beat because it didn’t flow: 
> 
> In June, Lisa gets Len a skating costume for his birthday. He blushes and growls, but he does a fashion show for her. Mick, of course, is in the apartment when it happens, lighting the candles on the birthday cake. Mick has never seen anything more gorgeous than a sparkly Len who isn’t hiding from the spotlight and is wearing a leotard of flames. Lisa winks at him.


End file.
